Progression
by icearrows1200
Summary: Season 6 Spoilers! A four-shot of drabbles examining and speculating Molesley's future, where things are not always as they seem. Baxley and angst heavy.
1. Chapter 1

The preliminary details have been settled: for three weeks, on Tuesdays and Thursdays from one to four, he is to double his work as a footman and assistant teacher to familiarize himself with the basics.

And he starts tomorrow.

It's a surreal, dream-like trance that plagues him. Being footman no longer takes precedence because teaching has become a priority, and he talks of nothing else.

Thomas has told him more than once to drop the subject for the sake of everyone else's boredom, but it's a cloud off of which he cannot fall. With a spring in his step, he floats about the house because after _years_ and _years_ of missing the metaphorical train of life, doesn't he deserve it? Perhaps he's over-confident, putting on airs of worth to which he's no right. But oh, _God_ , Cambridge and Oxford, _that's_ worth something; _he's_ worth something.

Giddiness, is what he feels, like a child who's seen his gifts before Christmas, the anticipation of conformation gnawing away at his insides.

So much has been decided, but there are discrepancies of details like plot-holes in a novel, but he can see it all: the hundreds of paths itching to be taken, each choice bowing before a million outcomes. Teaching school children, someday giving lectures at Oxford, research in France, trips to America-

Okay, perhaps nothing like _that_ , but it's not impossible, and that's what's so horribly enticing.

"I've not thought about where I'll live," he realizes one evening while he buries his nose in a book. Miss Baxter sits beside him, equally engrossed in a book of her own. Thomas sits across from him, invisible behind a newspaper, likely the jobs section.

"That is, when I've left service as a proper teacher," he finishes.

The newspaper rustles as Thomas turns the page behind his mask of tiny black font, "I'd imagine in a house or a cottage, Mr. Molesley."

"Well, I know _that_ ," Mr. Molesley shrugs, unaffected, "But I haven't made any inquiries as to _where_ the said house or cottage may be."

The newspaper fidgets and sighs once more before being folded and flung in Mr. Molesley's general direction, revealing a weary-eyed Thomas in its place.

"Then you'd better start looking."

He snaps his book shut and eyes the newspaper with disdain, "Maybe I'll just live with my dad…"

With a frustrated sigh, Thomas stands, retrieves the newspaper, and makes his way to what is presumably his room.

Once the sound of footsteps could no longer be heard, Miss Baxter speaks without moving her eyes from her book, "Don't mind Mr. Barrow. I suppose he wants a future, as well."

He anticipates that she'll say more, but it's not anticipation so much as hopeful thinking. What she _has_ said, however, strikes a chord within him and he shakes his head woefully. "It amazes me," he watches her an she reads, "That even after he bullied and threatened you, you'll still stand up for him."

She holds her page with her thumb and bites her lip, "We're never as we really seem, Mr. Molesley."

His breath hitches, "Right you are, Miss Baxter."

She closes her book with a sense of finality and bids him a soft goodnight before following in pursuit of the path Thomas had taken.

Before she leaves, he manages to call after her. He really shouldn't ask, but it's a thought that's been nagging him, clawing away at his certainty, his one shred of _true_ confidence.

She's heard him, and appears in the doorway as he moves to stand before her.

"You are… pleased for me, Miss Baxter?" He studies her expression carefully for any intonations, "I've not managed to ruin that, have I?" He averts his gaze to his feet and stares at them sheepishly, "With my bragging and boasting- it's no wonder Thomas-"

"I'm very pleased for you," Miss Baxter counters, "But I knew you'd pass, Mr. Molesley."

He huffs modestly, as if to deny it even when it's the truth itself that sometimes he can hardly believe. There's something more unsaid, either that he's forgotten or doesn't have the courage to find, because she doesn't leave quite yet. The half a foot that separates them seems impossibly far, and yet strikingly, painfully intimate, and to finally bring his eyes away from both their feet requires the physical strength of lifting an anvil.

To which he is quite unsuited.

It's there, however, and so the dense fog of unsaid or forgotten words becomes tangible, and his voice leaves his throat before he can bludgeon it back into the depths of his thought.

"Miss Baxter, I wonder…" And oh, no, her eyes have gone wide and circular like prey, she's terrified, but he has to finish, he's come this far- "If you've ever considered what you may do… when the time comes to leave Downton."

If anything, she looks relieved, and the implication of what she anticipated is enough to gouge out his heart. He hasn't said it, really, and he wouldn't have- but they both thought of it, and that's what hurts the most.

The answer sounds rehearsed, justified, "I've thought about it, of course, but her Ladyship will likely need a Lady's Maid for some time to come, and that's my job, unless I'm sacked."

"Of course," his voice cracks like an eggshell, "Silly of me to ask."

"Not silly at all," A moment passes like an eternity in the eyes of the Earth: brief, uneventful, and quiet. In any other lifetime, they might've been children in a staring contest; but he'd have lost, because the instant he can no longer look at her face- drawn up and tense with worry and history- she leaves him in the servant's hall.

His book falls from his grip and hits the floor with a _thud_.


	2. Chapter 2

Teaching, Mr. Molesley learns, is far more difficult than he'd anticipated.

Not every student is as diligent or eager to pour over the French revolution and long division as Daisy is.

Actually, none of them are.

They giggle and smirk behind his back, behind his chicken-scrawl on the chalkboard, and chatter among each other when he trips over his words like the obtrusive boulders they are. They pass notes instead of taking notes, whisper to each other until the room is filled with a dull buzz of words, and for the first day, one of the students has even let a cat loose in the classroom.

He'd never thought he'd quake before _children_ , before their spitballs and name calls _en mass_ , that his mouth would dry like cotton over the Spanish Inquisition or the English Civil War.

When the lesson had _finally_ come to an abrupt halt after a painful hour, he'd found the nerves of anxiety had become frayed and rather jumpy, instead of satisfied at its completion. The butterflies in his stomach had all been consumed by a restless bird of prey, and when the last child had finally left the schoolhouse, he had only been able to sink into a desk, defeated. The feeling was far worse than anything he'd anticipated.

The nature of children had promised trouble, trouble he was aware of and now knew first hand, but it was a battle in which he'd been slain quite easily.

He tells his woes to Miss Baxter, in the Servants' Hall after the lesson, when she's mending dresses with fluid hands and he wishes, sometimes, that tea were whiskey, because even when his future is unfurling before him, there are still things he can't have.

It's often here, in the Servants' Hall, that they speak most unrestrained, if that were possible, because a filter like a silk veneer must always be present. Silk, as he's noticed, _can_ be transparent.

She tells him to give the children a second chance, and even then, a third, a fourth, and they're bound to warm up to him.

Warm.

Fire, the sun: things that scald, but are perceived as warm.

He'll warm his hands by the fire; the sun is shining and it's warm today.

A paper thrown at his back: his face warms, but the embarrassment _scalds_.

He excuses himself, unable to bear to look her in the eye, something that can be so _natural_ at times and the most difficult during others. In someway, he's _failed_. Failed himself, failed the students, failed Miss Baxter, even, supposing she'd expected him to return from the schoolhouse some kind of hero.

Miss Baxter doesn't _need_ heroes, he reminds himself. Certainly not him.

"Mr. Molesley," She calls quietly, as if he truly wasn't meant to hear.

But he does, and stops in the doorway, just as he had stopped her yesterday, so at the very least, it's fair.

She averts her eyes from her mending and meets his so swiftly he nearly staggers. He wonders if, when he's left Downton, that she'll allow him to visit her, because suddenly, he can't remember life without her. What a curious notion.

Yet, he doubts, given yesterday's conversation about her intentions to stay at Downton, that she has any room for a future outside of service, at least for now; nor does she require him in it.

He awaits her words with bated breath, but he comes to realize that she's already said them- well, nothing was spoken, but everything was _said_. Behind her dark, secretive eyes- secrets plaguing her of which he wants to rid- exists a softness for which he has always searched, but only now seen.

What she's just told him, he must interpret, and does so by meeting her gaze.

Tempting, sincere, fortified, eyes brown like coffee.

"Would you like some coffee, Miss Baxter?"

"I would, rather," she concedes, and their faces light up in sync, and he's glad for the hall's dim evening light to hide his grin, for happiness is a scarce resource; one must not spend it all at once.

Coffee, in fact, does not scald.

 **A/N: What do you think? Baxley doesn't get as much attention as, say, Chelsie, but it's certainly a fantastic ship. Will they finally admit their feelings in episode 8, or will we have to wait for the Christmas special?**


	3. Chapter 3

Exactly the second day after he leaves service, he asks Miss Baxter to marry him.

Of course, that is not the _only_ thing that happened, there _is_ pretext, (and context and subtext) but it _is_ what happened.

Mr. Molesley had stopped by the Abbey after teaching that afternoon (which has improved enormously- the children cling to his every word.) and requested that she step outside with him for a moment, to take a brief stroll, if she'd like.

She _had_ liked, because Miss Baxter was granted a brief leave of absence from Mrs. Hughes, and had joined Mr. Molesley to meander down the path without a destination in mind. They had spoken of his work at the schoolhouse, how things were faring up at the Abbey (even though he's been gone hardly two days, but he likes to know things are still well; that _she_ is still well), and through the copious amounts of small talk, the words had managed their way out in passing.

He had planned for a rather grand confession, collapsing down on one knee, professing to her that _Phyllis Baxter, I want to spend the rest of my life with you_ , but in fact, his legs were trembling so violently that any attempt to kneel would've resulted in his falling completely on the dirt, and the rehearsed words were unfortunately stuck like cotton in the back of his throat.

So, as if he were asking what she thought of the weather, he asks her to marry him.

She extends both her hands to hold his, meets his watery expression, smiles wistfully.

And politely declines.

In the bloom of autumn colors, blood-red, and mud brown, bathed in grey fog, they are alone, more so than they've ever been, and it's strikingly intimate, despite the circumstances.

Despite that it's a Wednesday morning, in October, and her hands are icy cold in his, and his heart is thrumming wildly in his chest.

And despite that she's just said _no_ to the most pertinent question he's ever asked.

Like any _normal_ proposal, there are tears involved.

Unsurprisingly, they are _his_ tears, and he'd give anything to _not_ feel their salty heat on his cheeks, their implication, because they certainly do not _feel_ like tears of joy, proving that he didn't dream up her response. However, he wouldn't call them the result of sadness, or anger- they breathe a falling action to an anticlimactic turning point.

If only he could _speak_ , perhaps he could brush it off as a joke, but no, she's far too clever for that, too kind a friend to lie to. He's presented himself, his heart, and he must embrace the consequences.

The consequences are, that he is speechless, which would've happened no matter her answer. He is dreadfully conscious of her hands in his, still burning, numbing, like fire, and when he _finally_ manages to glance up from his feet, he finds she is about to speak- he must say something, justify himself before the implications wash over him and he has _ruined_ them.

"Was I mistaken, then?" He finally manages to croak out, "Was I mistaken when we danced together, went for walks together, and- and bloody _flirted_ for the better part of three years?"

She recoils and he instantly regrets the force with which his words were relayed, "I'm not angry, Miss Baxter; I'm sorry if I've… I just want…"

"You just want to know why, Mr. Molesley," She finished for him, dropping his hands from her, until they are once more cold.

He nods gravely, beckoning the worst of it, the long list of faults for which he is guilty. She likely sees teaching as an ill-bred profession, or thinks him too old, too bland. But no- he must give her her due credit: even if she thought them to be true, she is not superficial, not in the way that he sometimes is.

"You're not mistaken, Mr. Molesley," she says after an eternity. He could've flown into the sun.

"I'm _not_?" His legs feel weaker than before.

"No," There's a hint of anxiousness, frustration evident in her voice, but nonetheless, her demeanor is calm; Mr. Molesley wonders why it is so terribly difficult to read her, even after all this time.

"So, you'd…" He might very well faint, if it weren't for his heart drumming wildly in his ears, "You'd say yes, but…"

Her lips upturn into a soft smile and he _knows_ what's coming; he's heard it a million times in different contexts but the subtext is all the same.

"Look at you, Mr. Molesley," her voice wavers and she swallows thickly, "You're a _teacher_ now, on your way to a new life and future. You may not know it quite yet, but I believe you've found true happiness."

He opens his mouth to speak, but evidently, she, too, knows what he will say.

"I seem to go through life bringing bad fortune and sin with me like extra luggage. My past may be far behind me, but it's not gone; if something were to happen to you, to your new life _because_ of what I've done, I'd never forgive myself." She pauses and time seems to freeze, to cling tight to the anticipation of utter rejection that will soon crush him, send him humbly on his way.

"I want to help you be happy," She says so quietly he can hardly hear, "With Coyle's threat looming over me, I cannot help you."

"You don't _see_ , Miss Baxter," he protests, "If youmarry me, I _will_ be happy; if you _really_ don't want to, then I'll accept it- but I'm not convinced by your argument. I-" he stutters, then closes his eyes tightly, "I love you, Miss Baxter. And I'll never hurt you like Coyle did, nor let anyone else hurt you."

"I know," She says, to his astonishment. He studies her and she bites her lip, averts her eyes towards the ground. This is it, then, he's presented his case, he won't press her, and he supposes she'll want to leave now, never utter another word to him again, even if she _wants_ to say yes, which he supposes she does- she doesn't make up excuses without reason.

"I'll let you… get back to work, then," He sighs with lost finality, "Good day, Miss Baxter."

And as he turns to hide his reddening, salty face, he waits a beat- pauses in the dew-stained grass, beneath the bleeding trees and feels the worst pain of all- in cruel and ignorant hope that he'll hear her shift, call out for him to _wait_ , and all will be well.

She does no such thing.

 **A/N: I am so, so sorry. I honestly didn't mean for it to come out this way. I'll tell you what: if you guys like, I'll write a bonus chapter at the end with an alternate ending tomorrow before the next episode airs. Please let me know if you guys think I should do that. Other than that, thank you for reading! (Oh, and the threat by Coyle that Miss Baxter mentioned is just something I made up, as if he threatened her when she theoretically goes to see him in prison.)**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: As a continuation of last chapter (not an alternate ending)...**

For a while, he finds it lonely to be away from the house.

To eat breakfast with only himself, to have _time_ in the morning, and to have silence ringing like bells in his ears

More than once, he's laid out tea for five and sat between the empty seats and empty cups while he drinks from his own.

He's taken to feeding a cat with leftovers on his doorstep, complete with fur like ink and eyes like spring leaves. They say black cats are bad luck, but he seems to have been in good graces with Fate and Fortune as of late, (at least, for most things, but his poorer graces have little to do with Fate or Fortune.) so he doesn't see why he should be wary of the cat. She's a sweet one, anyway. He's taken to calling her Joan.

Despite that he teaches daily, he returns to the small property he's purchased at four, at the very latest. If time were a currency, (which, he supposes, it is) he would be wealthy, because it's practically spilling out of his pockets; he's drowning in it. This is worse than not having enough time to achieve everything- the over-abundance of time rots in his home and reeks of wastefulness and possibilities. He ventures off on long, uneventful walks, returns home, drinks a glass of whiskey, and sleeps. He's only gotten drunk once.

Since Miss Baxter declined his proposal, he's not been up to the Abbey. Daisy called on him a month ago, and he explained his recent absence by blaming a busy schedule. Ironic, how freedom can be so limiting.

Oh, but he's not being fair. Not to himself, at least. How like him to mope around in a puddle of self-pity until the puddle is a lake and he's drowned. There are a million and one things with which he can fill his dauntingly empty life, but he only ever thinks of one. Person, that is.

It's foolish, really. He supposes she's gone on with her life, and so should he. They aren't living in a fairy tale of tragic romance- they aren't like that, life isn't like that- and since she's made her decision, it's up to him to respect that, because oh, does he respect _her_. Yet, he can hardly ignore the deep, harrowing void that burns within him whenever he thinks of her. He's not being dramatic; at least, not any more than he usually is.

There are bonds formed with people that one sees everyday, whether the bonds are romantic in nature or not.

In January, on a Saturday when he supposes he should be spending his day off doing something interesting, he sits on the porch, dangling a long piece of yarn over Joan's head. She paws at the string, far more interested in the act of playing than he is; he hardly pays attention, staring intensely at a twig lodged in between two rocks, his left hand supporting his chin and his right hand giving life to the yarn.

"The cat seems to really like you."

He could've screamed.

His eyes dart up to the figure standing before him, who then sits beside him in her lovely winter coat and smiles. He doesn't think he's ever felt more awkward in his entire life. Miss Baxter, she who he would welcome at any other time, is sitting painfully close beside him after months of absence from each other, and quite frankly, he's beginning to sweat.

She extends a hand to pet Joan's head, who leaves the yarn in Mr. Molesley's forgotten hand.

"She's a stray, Miss Baxter," His shock has worn off and words finally force themselves out, "But I leave out food for her from time to time."

Hesitantly, she hoists the cat onto her lap with merely a few kicks of feline resistance, and holds her close to her chest, absent-mindedly stroking behind her ears. Like a car motor, Joan begins to purr loudly.

"You should take her in, Mr. Molesley. It's a cold winter and you wouldn't want her to freeze."

"I'm allergic to cats," he explains, "At least, when they're indoors. Out here it's not so bad." He's astonished that, even after _months_ of not having laid eyes on one another, they're able to speak so freely, uninhibited; it's like _it_ never even happened- maybe it didn't and he'd dreamed up the entire scene, and she's been wondering why he hasn't called on her.

"Mr. Molesley," She begins. He turns his attention to her as Joan fidgets and leaps from her lap to pounce on a dead leaf.

 _Oh, no_ , he thinks, because this is it: proof that he never dreamt the whole ordeal where his words weren't enough, and her sense of moral obligation was too great.

"I haven't seen you in quite a while," She continues, "I'll not pretend I don't know the reason."

Somehow, it's just as painful as the day it happened, a wound he's ignored and not bothered to stitch. "And you…" He manages, "…you would like to see me more?" He can't imagine how he's dared to say that. If he's going to be brash and bold, there's no reason to stop: "Because I'd like to see you more, Miss Baxter."

He studies her expression intently, her apprehension strung up in her expression, and he thinks fretfully that her delicate face, so rigid and wrought with worry, may just as well shatter over his porch. A trillion shards when she's nervous- it seemed she always is- but one, whole piece at sacred times. A trillion shards he'd like to touch, whole.

"Yes," Her voice is so quiet it might as well be wind, "But I want to be brave, brave enough to not let threats overcome me."

"Well, there are different _kinds_ of brave. There's the bravery to fight against wrongdoing, and the bravery to know fear and accept it, but not let it consume you. Miss Baxter, you are both kinds of brave. I've been envious of how courageous, how noble you've been to face life with your own responsibility, whereas I've hidden behind other people my whole life." He reaches for her hand and takes it in his own- the touch and acceptance of her gloved hand sends his heart soaring.

"Stay brave, Miss Baxter. But never be brave for my sake."

Dead, tangible silence hangs densely, suffocating in the space between them.

Suddenly, the space ceases to exist because he is kissing her, at long last, on his porch step in winter, a cat meowing at his feet. He can't recall if he initiated it, but he thinks he did, because one hand is cupping her cheek and the other is placed delicately on her neck; moreover, if _she_ had kissed _him_ , he probably would've fainted.

He feels rather faint as it is, his fingers trembling on her skin like violinists playing vibrato, but that she's kissing _back_ sends his mind ablaze. It lasts both an eternity and a split-second, passionate but chaste, and they are interrupted by an attention-deprived Joan who leaps up on to his lap and begins meowing incessantly.

They part, laughing, grinning stupidly, and Miss Baxter once more tries to hold the wriggling cat, but to no avail; Joan squirms until she's free and scampers off into the garden, hidden beneath a bush.

"I don't think your cat is fond of me," Miss Baxter says with mock-disappointment.

"She's just shy," Mr. Molesley reasons. His lips still burn with implication and thrill; he finds he cannot take his eyes off of her. "You realize that I'm going to ask you to marry me again."

And, like before, she takes his hands in hers, meets his beaming expression, grins brilliantly.

And accepts.

The End

 **A/N: Thank you so much for reading! The amount of views and reviews I've received are so supportive. Who knows, I might write about these two again!**

 **Now we just have to hope and wait for tonight's episode.**


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